All We Have Can Never Be
by finkpishnets
Summary: Oneshot. Once upon a time, in a land full of hills and trees and sprawling fields, there lived a young man named Ianto Jones. Owen/Ianto.


**Title:** all we have can never be  
**Author:** finkpishnets  
**Fandom:** Torchwood  
**Rating:** R  
**Characters/Pairings:** Ianto, Ianto/Lisa, Ianto/Jack, Ianto/Owen.  
**Spoilers:** Up to and including Fragments, but none for Exit Wounds (which clearly _never happened_).

* * *

Once upon a time, in a land full of hills and trees and sprawling fields, there lived a young man named Ianto Jones. Ianto was a dreamer; despite being good-looking and smart he always felt as though he was different to everyone else in the world. Whilst his classmates played rugby and computer games, he sat and wrote in his sacred leather diary; he wrote stories of other worlds, of beautiful women trapped by evil masters, and daring heroes coming to their rescue. He wrote of planets and stars, of space ships and species, and when he wasn't writing them down, he thought about them all the time. Ianto felt different from everyone around him, as though he knew a secret that they were all too stupid and closed minded to be a part of. He was special, he thought as he sketched pictures of unique stones and metal parts, he wasn't trapped by the lack of imagination that most people, child and adult alike, seemed to be.

When he was fifteen, his mother took him aside. 'Ianto,' she said softly, 'Ianto, you need to stop this; go out with your friends, play football and rip your jeans and don't come home until after your curfew. Get in trouble!' Ianto didn't understand what she was saying – no mother _told_ their son to get in trouble. Besides, he didn't know why his parents thought he was doing anything wrong; he was a good child, he didn't smoke or drink or do drugs like the other boys his age, and he never mouthed off to his teachers even when they did say something completely ridiculous.

'Alright,' he said, not knowing how else to respond. He took his diary and went to the top of the hill by his house where his parents couldn't see him and then went back to his writing. He didn't want to spend time with the other boys he knew; they were juvenile and crass, and only thought of girls and sex and their Playstation's.

Ianto did this every day for three months; his mother, he thought, must know how he spent his time, but she didn't say anything else, she just gave him a disappointed look sometimes upon his return. He didn't like disappointing his mother but he was stubborn and content, not understanding why he should do something that would make him unhappy when he was perfectly satisfied being alone with his daydreams.

When Ianto was seventeen his parents died in a car crash; that night, he walked for miles until he was two towns over and then snuck into a run down, practically deserted pub. He used his maturity to his advantage and it didn't even cross the old bartender's mind to ID him. He drank beer after beer until he threw up in the dingy men's bathroom and then drank some more just for the hell of it, ignoring the barman's suspicious glance, and then passed out down a back alley somewhere on his way home. He woke up the next morning soaking wet and with a killer headache, heaving brokenly onto the cold stone. He repeated this several times over the next six months, becoming used to the splitting hangovers it left him and thinking bitterly that at least his mother would be pleased.

As soon as he turned eighteen he packed his bags and moved to London, no longer the dreamer he had once been. Now he was bitter and angry and alone; he needed to be in a place where everybody didn't know his name and life history, where he could be alone and lonely in peace. London seemed perfect. He still had his diary, somewhere, buried amongst old clothes and the odd knick-knack that he threw in his luggage just for the hell of it, but he didn't look at it anymore. For so long his dreams had been everything, but now they'd abandoned him, dying along with his parents, the only people who had loved him almost unconditionally.

He realised, when he got to London, that he didn't have a plan; he had very little money, all of his worldly possessions (those which he hadn't smashed fiercely against the wall or flung carelessly into the lake at the bottom of the road), and no prior experience when it came to working. He was exceptionally bright, of course, and his grades were pretty good even after the crash, and so it seemed only natural that he should apply to University, getting in on clearing. He studied history, wanting to immerse himself in the lives of people long ago who had it a lot worse than him – it helped put things in perspective. He didn't strive to make friends, not interested in socialising or getting close to anyone, but he didn't push people away either, chatting politely with them as they waited for lectures to begin, or sitting with them at the pub if they happened to be there at the same time. He took on several different part time jobs during the three years so he could save up some much needed money. It was the closest he'd ever been to being a part of something and yet he _still_ felt like an outsider.

After his final exams were over and he was thinking seriously about what he was now going to do with himself, two men in immaculate suits turned up at the door of his cheap student accommodation. 'Mr Jones,' they said, inching their heads slightly in greeting. 'We're from the Torchwood Institute; we'd like to speak to you if you have a moment.'

Ianto didn't know why Torchwood wanted to recruit him, but after the two men had left, leaving him a card with only a printed number on it, he suddenly recalled all the dreams he'd tried to repress since he was seventeen. And he thought that maybe that _was_ where his destiny lay after all. He rang the number the next morning, not feeling the anticipation or nerves that he supposed normal people would feel under the circumstances. He was not normal, after all. He wasn't sure if he'd _ever_ felt normal. He started work three days after his graduation.

Working at Torchwood One was nothing like Ianto expected and yet everything he'd once believed working for a secret government organisation would be like. He was a Junior Researcher; a job that suited him perfectly as he searched through paperwork and files and computer databases in an attempt to fill his days. It was like looking through his old diary only more detailed with longer words and, of course, _real_. Still he shied away from the people around him, but that was okay because everyone did the same thing. Nobody here felt normal. He thought that maybe that should, in some twisted double negative sort of way, make him feel accepted. But it didn't.

Ianto met Lisa Hallett accidentally when he'd been working for Torchwood three months. The building was huge with dozens of different departments that rarely had the opportunity (or inclination) to interact, but walking quickly up a flight of stairs back from his lunch break, he'd run straight into someone, knocking a stack of paperwork flying and immediately spilling out a series of polite apologies as he began gathering up the fallen files. When he'd finally taken a breath, he'd looked up into the eyes of the most beautiful young woman he'd ever seen and, over the next two months, he learnt that everything about her was equally as wonderful. She was smart and funny and sweet but knew how to kick a little arse should the need arise, and it was the first time that Ianto found himself wanting to get close to someone. He was thrilled to learn that she wanted to get to know him, too. For the first time in his life Ianto felt normal and accepted and happy.

When everything fell apart he didn't feel as surprised as he knew he should. He was still scared and angry and broken, but it was as if all those emotions were controlling themselves whilst he sat detached inside himself. He watched Torchwood One burn from the inside as he fought his way out, covering his face with his arm and steering clear of Daleks and Cybermen as they almost brought about the apocalypse. He heard that the illustrious Doctor was somewhere in the building, preparing to save the day in a swoop of idiotic heroics and last minute genius. It would have made Ianto feel a little safer should he have really noticed how he was feeling at all. The only time his heart sped up and tears fell was when he heard Lisa's screams. Afterwards he remembered running to her, stepping over fallen bodies of colleagues and bosses and then holding her close as she let out cries of agony and anguish – it broke his heart in a way he hadn't known since he was seventeen. He vowed that he wouldn't let her go; she was the only person to ever make him feel normal.

Getting a job at Torchwood Three in Cardiff was not as difficult as it could have been. Ianto was persistent and charming and ridiculously intelligent, and even when Captain Jack Harkness told him in no uncertain terms that he was not wanted or needed, he took note of exactly how the he looked at him. It was easy to find out how to play the older man; he liked beautiful people and danger, not necessarily in that order (or exclusively) and Ianto used that. Once he was in, he knew that things could start moving forward. They didn't.

He thought he'd cried for the last time when Lisa had been caught in the Canary Wharf crossfire. Then his betrayal had been discovered and his colleagues had pumped her body (_no, _not _her_ body, not really) full of bullets, their eyes cold and hearts unfeeling – even Gwen bloody Cooper who was so _worried_ about _humanity_ – he hated them all in that moment, more than he'd ever hated anyone in his entire life. There was grief and pain and loathing and it was the most emotion Ianto had ever felt all at once. Perhaps, he thought, this is what it takes to be ordinary.

The three people in the world he'd ever loved were dead, and he didn't know how he was supposed to even _pretend_ to be normal anymore.

He didn't expect to fall in love with Captain Jack Harkness; it had started as simple flirtation and mutated into something that was mouths and hands and meaningless words. It was simple and uncomplicated and exactly what Ianto needed. Until it wasn't. Because Jack was the sort of person that you fell for before you even realised it was happening, waking up one day to realise that, yes, you were head over heels in love with him, but he wasn't Lisa and, at first, Ianto thought that was a problem. Jack _couldn't die_, and Ianto knew that, above everything, that was important. He'd lost too many people as it was.

When Jack left, running off around time and space with a man he had loved for centuries, Ianto realised that there was more than one way to lose somebody. It wasn't like his parents or Lisa; it was an entirely different sort of pain that left him wondering whether this wasn't when he'd finally give up.

Jack's return should have been cause for celebration, and it was in a way; they had their boss, their leader, their _friend_ back and that was important. But Ianto couldn't, _wouldn't_, let himself be drawn back into something that was, ultimately, going to destroy him; he had a little more self preservation than that. There was still flirting and empty promises of dinner and movie dates; there was even the occasional shag in the hot house or Jack's office. But it was never the same, and as Jack began mooning after Gwen (he always wanted what he couldn't have, after all), Ianto took a step back, focusing on coffee and filing and work in general so that he could, once again fade into the background.

And then Owen Harper died. He died in a haze of rational and bravery and gun shots that left the team stunned and helpless because _this wasn't supposed to happen!_ And then Jack – stupid, loyal, desperate Jack – brought him back to life with a glove that shouldn't even exist, surely going against every basic rule he'd had installed by his precious Doctor, and suddenly Owen was back again, a walking, bitter, depressed corpse. And Ianto honestly felt for him because now Owen was _wrong,_ too, and it felt nice to know that he wasn't the only one. They began spending more time with one another; Ianto hated sleeping, it was only filled with shadows and memories and, since Owen _didn't_ sleep, they took to watching DVD's and talking until it was time, again, to go back to the circus that was their world. Ianto suspected that the others were talking about them behind their backs, suspicious of their synchronised arrivals and friendly demeanour during work hours, and he found that he actually couldn't care less.

One night they were lying on the floor, just staring at the ceiling of Ianto's flat and occasionally commenting on something that had happened during the day when Owen leant over and pressed their lips together. Ianto was shocked for all of two seconds before he realised that he really shouldn't be.

'I'm being selfish,' Owen told him when they finally drew apart, 'I can't give you anything, but I just wanted to kiss you, to see what it would be like.'

Ianto looked at him gravely. 'And what was it like?'

Owen smiled bitterly. 'It was like I almost felt something.'

Ianto closed his eyes, his head dropping back against the floor, breathing deeply.

'I'm sorry,' Owen said after a while.

'Don't be,' Ianto assured him.

'I should go,' Owen murmured ten minutes later, and Ianto opened his eyes to see the other man sitting crossed legs a few inches from him, picking at the carpet and looking ridiculously crestfallen.

'Why?' Ianto asked, voice gently questioning.

Owen looked at him for a moment before answering. 'Because if I stay then I'm going to kiss you again, even if I'm only imagining what I'm not actually feeling, and then I'm not going to want to stop kissing you, and it's going to be a complete disaster. I can't shag you or be shagged by you. I can't even offer you a bloody blow job because my glands have all but shrivelled up. If I stay then I'm not going to be able to remind myself of all that and I'll never be able to let you go because _this_, whatever the fuck it is, is the closest I've been to actually sodding _feeling_ since I became an elite member of the walking dead.'

'Oh,' Ianto replied.

'Yeah,' Owen said. 'Oh.'

And then Ianto kissed him again, ignoring Owen's brief protests, and wrapping an arm awkwardly around the older man's neck, pulling him down so he was lying half on top of him in a way that wasn't remotely comfortable for either of them. It was strange and new and Ianto was fully aware that it could only end in heartbreak, but for once he really didn't care. 

He knew that tomorrow things would have changed, most probably for the worse, and that, if he were being remotely sensible, he would walk away right now because this was just going to result in yet more pain and chaos and the general screwing over of his mental state.

Instead, he just kissed Owen again.

After all, happily ever afters' were for normal people, and neither of them could be classified as that.


End file.
